


Degrees Separation

by retrospectav



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Plus-Size Lovin's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1436548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrospectav/pseuds/retrospectav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many people are between you and another person?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Degrees Separation

**Author's Note:**

> Every tall tale has a grain of truth.  
> Written by stayhomemom

London, August, 1991

I stood entranced. I had been to dozens of museums, seen countless works of art, but none had ever captured my attention as this one had. Wheatfield by Van Gogh, I could promise you I FELT the wind moving through the wheat stalks. I even found myself leaning, lost in the overpowering effect of it. I’m not sure how long I stood like that before noticing there was someone else standing next to me, leaning like I was. I glanced briefly to my left, and recognized a boy roughly the same age as me. He was tall and lanky with bright strawberry hair. He turned and smiled at me. I smiled shyly in response, nodded slightly, then turned away, moving farther along the gallery. I wandered through a few rooms before discovering Degas’ Little Dancer. Again, I found myself transfixed. My eyes lingered on each detail of her figure. Again, I’m not sure how long I stood there before realizing that someone stood on the other side of the statue, staring just as intently. When I looked up, I realized it was the boy from before. He smiled at me in acknowledgement. I was struck by the color of his eyes. They were predominantly green, but not entirely.. I found myself wanting to stare, but caught myself from being so rude. I blushed foolishly and began to turn away. I felt a tentative touch on elbow and reacted as if receiving an electrical shock. He looked embarrassed. Then with hesitation asked, “Would you like a cuppa tea?” His teenage voice broke softly, but I could hear its deeper timber. I blushed again, but before I could answer, another girl from my group came storming up to me. “Bea, it’s time for us to meet out front.” My friend hadn’t even glanced at the boy, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. There was something gangly and not quite refined about his appearance, but he was incredible magnetic. “Coming,” I barely managed to struggle out. She grabbed me by the arm and began steering me towards the door. I looked back over my shoulder to him, he appeared disappointed. We turned a corner and he was out of sight.

Upstate New York, August, 2002

“Mazal Tov!” Everyone shouted gleefully. My cousin Rachel looked stunning in her cocktail length wedding dress. She was radiant as every bride should be. I had yet to meet Dan, her new husband, but I could see by the way that looked at each other they were in love, and that by far was the most beautiful thing. There was an open bar while the wedding party had photographs taken. I felt like the poor country cousin. Everyone there was dressed so grandly, discussing things of importance. There I was a college drop out with a clearance dress off the rack. So I mostly stared off into the gardens, or ended up being trapped in a conversation with a stuffy old aunt. By the time dinner was over, I was anxiously awaiting the cake cutting so I could get back to my motel. Not because I didn’t love my cousin, but because I was so out of place. Rachel and Dan were making a circuit of the room. When they made it to our table she gave me a huge hug and excitedly introduced me to Dan. She said she wanted to talk to me, which meant of course, I didn’t leave.  
I was sitting off to the side watching the dance floor. Alcohol had been flowing for a few hours now and inhibitions were low, so the dance floor was providing quite a bit of entertainment. Then Rachel sat heavily down in the chair next to me. “Why didn’t you come to rehearsal dinner last night?” she asked. “I didn’t know I had been invited, plus I got lost of my way up here.” “And may I ask why you are not being your usual self this evening?” I bowed my head and studied my fingers. “Bea?” “Rach, this is so elegant.” She laughed, I continued. “Dan’s family is here from England, and Uncle Lee can’t stop talking about his best man, Sacha Baron Cohen. I just didn’t want to embarrass you and spoil everything.” She threw her arm around me, giving me an awkward neck hug. “I love you. And you are beautiful.” My eyes teared up and I turned my face away. She sprang up from her chair and returned to the dance floor.

Cardiff, August, 2010

Cast and crew were laughing hysterically as Martin Freeman did a riff of his character Ricky from ‘Ali G Indahouse’, starring Sacha Baron Cohen. Benedict Cumberbatch laughed so hard he snorted.

London, August, 2013

Once again I stood enthralled. I could not explain the power this painting had over me, but it had ceased to lessen. But now I longer looked at as a young girl awestruck by the grandeur of it. Now I was woman, lost in the simplicity of it. Before I wanted to stand in front of it and let the wind carry me away. Now I wanted to jump in and run through those wheat fields. It’s amazing what time does to our perspectives. As I imagined running my hands through the wheat stalks, I became aware of someone standing next to me. I only glanced briefly to recognize that it was man, and he was tall. Beyond that I took no other note of him, and walked on into the gallery. I found myself again wandering room to room, then again stopping in my tracks at the Little Dancer. I was surprised by the tears that sprung to my eyes. I suddenly realized of how beautiful she truly was. In my teenage mind she was lovely, and lithe, and graceful. As an adult I could see her, the ‘real’ her, molded in the bronze. And my hands ached to touch her and caress the pink bow tied so lovingly in her hair. Someone to my left handed me a handkerchief. I accepted it, embarrassed having been caught in a life-reflective moment in the middle of a museum. “I’m sorry for interrupting you.” The man’s rich baritone voice said comfortingly. “No, please, I feel foolish for becoming so emotional.” I dried my eyes and handed him back his handkerchief. This time I notice his long graceful arm and elegant fingers. I looked up and saw the deep red of his auburn hair, and watched as the light played with his not entirely green eyes. “What is art, but the physical manifestation of emotion?” he remitted. My mouth dropped open as I failed not to gawk at his absolute perfection. He smiled at me kindly. “Would you care to join me for a cuppa tea?” “I-I-yes, please.” He touched me on the elbow to guide me to the cafe. I felt as if an electric shock had run right through me. “I’m Ben by the way.”


End file.
